


Lie Upon Your Sleep

by buccellati



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4380572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buccellati/pseuds/buccellati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders, having put off his merging with Justice (and all consequences thereafter), sticks around Vigil's Keep long enough to meet the newest recruit; one Carver Hawke, who, in his own words, "died his way in".</p>
<p>The mage teases the Hawke, asks him out for drinks, makes fun of Oghren and spends the entire time, according to Carver, looking pretty. Somewhere down the line sex and arguments are had, the former between two human adults and the latter between two human adults and a persistent spirit.</p>
<p>One universal constant is that between Kirkwall and Amaranthine, Carver always ends up needing to get laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from the Canticle of Transfigurations, 1:5 according to the Dragon Age Wiki. It doesn't have much relevance to the story but I thought it was cool.

“Maker, I’m fucking dead.”

The room is spinning- at least it _seems_ like a room, with a somewhat discernable ceiling and four wall-shaped looking things. But it is going around in circles, which is something walls tend not to do, not at least in Carver’s experience.

A laugh rings out from…somewhere. One of the blurry shapes that, if Carver squints, look kind of like men, clad in blue and grey and lightly clinking armor.

They almost look like Grey Wardens, which Carver Hawke knows as well as anyone is completely ridiculous. Wardens have no business in Kirkwall anyhow.

“Sounds like how you acted at _your_ Joining.”

“Sounds more like how I felt! Cut the kid some slack.”

“Everyone here’s been through a Joining before, it’s his fault he only lived by an inch or so.”

“Right, and everyone here’s got infected by the taint and had to be given the Joining shit half-conscious?”

“Doubt it was even half, look at him!”

As the spinning slows, the room gets more crowded and more noisy and more like a proper room, with real walls further apart than any in Gamlen’s house. Fucking Gamlen’s house. Carver should be grateful that they have somewhere to live, somewhere where there’s a roof over their heads, somewhere that’s not Lothering. As if a darkspawn-ravaged ghost town is any better than twelve total square feet of grime and dust.

Garrett doesn’t ever complain. Of course he doesn’t! The golden boy never complains, not as long as he has a barrel upon which to kick up his feet and forget about his family’s troubles.

_He’s probably at the Hanged Man with his little buddies now_ , Carver thinks, _figures that he left me to…_

The younger Hawke becomes suddenly, acutely aware that he has no idea where he is, only that his brother isn’t here, and there’s men standing around him that look weirdly like Grey Wardens, and he’s in a bed and they went to the Deep Roads and found that weird lyrium and there were darkspawn, there were tons of darkspawn, and something started to hurt and Garrett let them take him away, so that means-

“Fucking Wardens,” Carver thinks- or believes he thinks, until the men turn to stare at him and he realizes he might not have kept it to himself.

One of them laughs again, the same amused laughter he heard when he was still half-conscious. Half-conscious. Where has he heard that before?

“Welcome to the Wardens, I’m-”

“Joining? What- where’s my brother?” The questions spill out like the guts of a darkspawn with a sword in its chest. The Warden who was speaking just pauses, smiles.

“At least he’s enthusiastic,” A grumble from the tall Warden’s left. There’s a dwarf, about Varric’s height, maybe less, and to the other side an unhappy-to-be-here man with dark hair and a crease in his brow.

“Reminds me of you.”

“Yeah, but he might be a little more sober than I was. Dunno, though. He was out for a while.”

“Are you-” Carver is still a little dizzy, what in the world _happened_ to him? “Are you going to answer, or what?”

“Still remind you of me?”

“Smells much better! Anyway- it’s Carver, right? Didn’t get a last name. Your brother is back up in Kirkwall, I expect, enjoying all the stuff he hauled out of those Deep Roads. A shame you aren’t basking in the glory! Though I suppose surviving the whole ordeal is as glorious a fate as someone who gets the taint and lives can achieve. Congratulations, anyway.”

Carver blinks. “So I’m a _Grey Warden_.” It rolls off his tongue in a weird way he isn’t so sure he enjoys. And he still isn’t so sure the whole thing isn’t some kind of dream.

“Right. And I’m Anders. Happy to have you.”


	2. Chapter Two

The Warden- _Anders_ , Carver has to remind himself, as there’s a bit more than a few Wardens here, is certainly a character. He’s tall, with a couple inches on Carver that he didn’t expect; but then again he isn’t sure what he did expect.

It takes only a couple days for Carver to realize that at the Keep, (Vigil’s Keep is what they call it, some sodding huge place with enough rooms to get lost in for weeks) you almost never see the sun. He knew Ferelden was rainy. Knew it well enough after living there for almost twenty years. He just never knew the clouds could hold enough water to rain so much for so long, even in Ferelden.

Holding his shield above his head to stay dry, Carver figures one learns something new every day.

“Lighten up, kid!”

Oghren- that’s the dwarf, the one with the rusty looking hair and the stench of alcohol constantly following him- hollers past him. He’s always hollering, and it’s a bit unnecessary in Carver’s mind, seeing as the red hair and the smell of him alone is hard enough to miss even if he isn’t exactly at eye level.

“You look like you stepped in dog shit. Homesick, or what?”

Carver grumbles. He may not have stepped in dog shit, or maybe he did, he wouldn’t know. He’s practically up to his knees in mud either way. “Try ‘or what’.”

“Oghren! Stop picking on the recruit!”

“I’ll give you somethin’ to pick on!” And he’s gone again.

“The recruit” is comforting. He’s not Carver, or Hawke- not “the little Hawke”, Maker forbid. He’s just another new recruit, despite the unusual circumstances. Just a recruit who gets trained like any other, strapping into blue and grey every morning, evening, and afternoon to hack at a straw darkspawn until it’s sufficiently deceased, boots and armor covered in mud again.

Not as deceased, though, as the sparring partner of Anders. It’s charred and blackened and sopping wet, and for fuck’s sake, it took Carver much too long to realize the enthusiastic blonde was a mage. Should’ve known right away.

“You’re the reason everyone complains about having to buy new dummies. Figures.”

“Of course! Not like you and your big sword are damaging the thing at all, I assume.”

“Sure I’m damaging it! I’ve a sword, not a branch. Obviously.” He _hopes_ it’s obvious. It’s a pretty fine sword, isn’t it? Kirkwall’s best, probably, which...isn’t saying much. It’s a decent sword. It cuts things. Does...sword stuff. Has a hilt and a blade. Good enough.

“Then what are you blaming me for?”

“At least I can hack at the thing with my sword more than once. You, it’s one fireball and you’re done. Next!”

“Proves how much stronger I am than you. Darkspawn fear me, you know. You should see the looks on their faces!”

“I...No it doesn’t! No they don’t.” Carver doesn’t know if he believes the mage or not, but manages to convince himself that he doesn’t. Darkspawn hardly have brains, they can’t likely be _scared_ , not by some stupid lanky mage with more feathers than sense and with and a gold earring and a pet cat.

Though Carver is a bit jealous about the cat.

“They do.”

“They’re the only ones, then.”

“They’re the only ones we’re fighting, so the only ones that matter!”

Carver sheathes his sword, huffs. “Fine, then. When you’re done flirting with darkspawn, I’ll be inside, telling everyone else who to blame for the wrecked dummies so they stop blaming the new recruit.”

“Sure you won’t get jealous, Hawke?”

“Fuck off, mage!” No one else calls him Hawke, at least not _yet_ , and the name coming from a prettyboy mage doesn’t make Carver feel any better. So he means it.


	3. Chapter Three

Being a Grey Warden, Carver’s decided, is not the worst possible thing that could have happened to him. After all, he could have been carried up out of the Deep Roads, limp and cold as anything, could’ve never seen the daylight with his own two eyes again. But he eventually does see the daylight at the Keep, as it stops raining after a week and he stops having to- well, he stopped scrubbing mud off his boots half a week ago. He thinks it makes him look more tough, like he’s been trekking for a month through the Wilds in the South, like he’s been fighting darkspawn in some mucky marsh somewhere. He hasn’t been doing anything but proving to the Wardens he can swing a sword, but he likes to pretend otherwise.

The other Wardens aren’t so bad, either. Oghren, after a few drinks, tells tales of the Wardens who defended the Keep and the city as darkspawn ravaged it. The story doesn’t make sense to Carver, but he goes along with it, manages to garner that the aforementioned Wardens just went their separate ways. He wonders why Anders and Oghren stayed, then figures maybe they just didn’t have anywhere else to go. Fair enough. He’d do the same, probably. Or maybe not. He’s not sure.

“You haven’t been to Amaranthine yet?”

The topic comes up over dinner- it’s weird, a proper dinner (though the meat is a bit mysterious), not just whatever Mother had managed to scrounge up that night- with Anders’s mouth hanging open in surprise. “And you’ve been here _how_ long?”

“A week?”

“Right, then, we’re going tonight. Oghren, you remember how to get to that tavern and back, right? I always know the way _there_ , but the way back to the Keep is a little fuzzy.”

“What kinda question is that? ‘Course I know.”

“Good. So, don’t make any other plans.”

“There goes my evening.”

Anders smirks. Carver wonders briefly if all Grey Wardens are this ridiculous, always talking about booze or women or both, always joking around and acting all merry. He wonders if the Hero of Ferelden was like that, but as he’s watching Anders saunter off to his room, he has his answer. Sure, there may be no Blight going on, but Anders and Oghren just aren’t hero types. Not like he’s had much experience with heroes, but Carver thinks he might know one if he saw one. Which he hasn’t, yet. But regardless.

It’s plenty dark out by the time he hears a knock at his door. “Hawke! We’re leaving!”

_Hawke_. Well, whatever. Carver doesn’t know Anders’s or Oghren’s last names, and quite frankly he doesn’t care, either. He opens his door and whoever knocked is already gone.

The Keep is quiet for the time of night. Weirdly so. Enough for Carver to realize that _everyone_ probably left for the city. Amaranthine. A bit of a mouthful, Carver thinks. Not like Lothering or Kirkwall. Two, three syllables, piece of cake. Four, now that’s pushing it. Sure, he grew up in the arling, but he was young enough then to not bother learning the name. What does the arling of Amaranthine mean to a seven year old?

The city is loud, too, louder than Kirkwall or Lothering. Lothering was quiet, especially in the later years when everyone was just scared. Scared of the Blight. Scared of each other too, probably. And Kirkwall is miserable in Lowtown and snobbish in Hightown. The only noise in that city is the endless hollering of merchants. That, Carver actually misses, for some reason.

But the tavern _isn’t_ quiet, littered by conversations and the occasional hoot or holler.

“What Kirkwall tavern was it that was better than this one?” Anders has a nasally note of contempt in his voice, fueled in part by his dogged Ferelden loyalty but mostly by the number of drinks he’s knocked back.

“The Hanged Man! Makes this, uh, Crown and whatever look a bit abandoned. Smells less like Lowtown here, though.”

“And Lowtown smells like…”

“Piss, mostly. In the Hanged Man, vomit. But this place reeks a bit more of dwarf.”

Oghren belches loudly with what Carver thinks might be pride. “Only a bit?”

“I think Varric bathes a little more often than you.”

“Hey, don’t convince him to be _cleaner_! We’d lose him in the Keep if we didn’t all know to follow the smell of something that’s been dead for three weeks.”

Carver, with his glass empty and no response at the tip of his tongue this time, just rolls his eyes. But the silence at the table creeps in quickly, and he _knows_ the older Wardens are looking at him from around the tavern, wanting to see how their new recruit really acts when he’s not around supervision- what would he do in this situation if he were in Kirkwall?

Alright, that’s pretty easy. He’d probably have another drink, maybe two, maybe leave to go have sex with someone. Probably leave to go have sex with someone.

“So,” Anders’s eyes are on him pretty quickly, as soon as he starts talking- is that weird? He doesn’t know if it’s _really_ weird, or only seems that way when he’s inebriated. “So, around here, do you have...I mean, is there…” Whatever he’s been drinking (and he actually doesn’t know) has his tongue, and he futilely gestures to his crotch. “Places…”

Anders almost spits out his drink laughing. “Hawke, I’m sure we have _places_.” He shares a glance with Oghren. “I like this kid! He can swing a big sword and hit things, he’s not one of those weepy drunks, he’s not hard to look at, and he knows where his priorities are. Where they should be.”

Oghren swings his feet up onto the table. “You say that about every recruit, mage.”

“No, I don’t!” The blonde pouts, petulant.

“You _probably_ do,” some unfamiliar voice rings out from the back of the tavern. Laughter follows it all through the place and _shit_ , Carver thinks, they really were all paying attention to his table. Watching him, probably. Well, whatever.

“To answer your question, we’ve got plenty of places. Mage here knows just about all of them. He can let you know, if you ever are off duty and wantin’ a little…” He gestures obscenely. Carver grimaces, but the redhead dwarf in front of him just laughs. “There’s no point in skirting around it!”

“Sure, dwarf, just announce to the whole pub that I know where all the whorehouses in Amaranthine are.”

“You said it, not me. And it’s true!”

“I swear one day you’ll wake up and your beard will be a real, living rat on your face. Actually...that’s assuming it isn’t already. It’d be a bit redundant.”

Oghren just laughs again, loudly, and waves a hand in the air. “Can we get another round over here?”

Something comes over Carver and he shakes his head. “I’m done for tonight.” The place just isn’t enough like Kirkwall to bother staying for hours. What’s the point, if Merrill isn’t around to ask the other tavern-goers strange questions (shit, Merrill, she’s okay back there, isn’t she? Garrett told her what happened, didn’t he?), if Varric isn’t around to exaggerate the day’s escapades to confused yet enraptured passerby, if Isabela isn’t around to make Carver question his decision to _definitely not_ have sex with any of his brother’s friends? (And Merrill doesn’t count, he wouldn’t have sex with her, he’d just...he’d hold her hand, or something, do elves do that kind of thing? He could ask Fenris, right? Or would he get the wrong message? No, his brother has likely already got Fenris taken care of in that aspect-)

“Already?” Anders is giving him a _look_ , half “puppy left out in the rain” and half “come on, relax, stay a while, I want to get to know you”. Or- maybe he’s not. He decides promptly the nonsense in his head is just the drinks talking, or thinking, or whatever.

“Yeah.” He pushes in his chair.

“Then let me walk you back. It’s easy enough to get lost while sober.”

“Fair enough.” He doesn’t exactly _want_ to get walked out of the city like a child following their mother, but, okay, he is a little buzzed and this _is_ his first time out of the Keep since he arrived. So it’s fine this time.

Anders has a funny way of walking, Carver decides. He walks like he pretends he knows where he’s going. Carver knows the mage actually _does_ know where he’s headed, but he looks like he’s bluffing. But the view from behind isn’t a bad one, even if Carver is still a little peeved about the fact that a _mage_ is taller than he is. Another one, because Garrett has a few inches on him. Unfortunately. At least he is- _was_ taller than Bethany, but wow, he’s going to stop thinking about his family now before things get remarkably unpleasant.

He doesn’t actually realize the issue at first when he ends up in Anders’s room, because he’s wrapped up in his thoughts and his alcohol content and in the action of staring aimlessly at the man’s shoulder blades barely hidden under his robes as he walks. It’s not until the blonde actually turns around and his back is out of sight that Carver realizes he was supposed to stop following a couple doors down- right?

“Maybe I _should’ve_ walked you straight to your room!”

“You’re hilarious.”

“That almost sounded sincere.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t.”

Anders grins, and Carver notices for what feels like the first time that he really isn’t an unattractive man, even if he is a mage. And annoyingly tall. And needs a shave. He also notices for the first time how many women flocked to him at the tavern and in the city, batting their eyelashes at him while he _smoldered_. Or maybe that was his resting face.

Carver looks over again and wishes _his_ resting face looked that close to a smolder.

“So Hawke- were you _actually_ looking to get laid anytime soon, or just asking for further reference?”

He’s not sure he actually knows, so he says so.

“Either way, if you do go, don’t go too often. People notice. Soon enough the whole Keep’s talking. Sure, everyone goes every now and then, but start heading out night after night and no one sees you around the city? You’ll get some _looks_ , especially a spry little new recruit like you.”

“‘Spry’ makes me sound like an old person.”

“Fine, fine. Would you prefer frisky? Peppy? Sprightly?”

“No!”

“Then you’re spry.”

Carver crosses his arms. “Is there a point to this?”

Anders grins even wider and looks even more like he’s smoldering. Carver starts to think it might be on purpose.

“Just wanted to know if you wanted sex.”

The mage is _definitely_ smoldering on purpose. The hairs rising on the back of Carver’s neck and the warmth in the tips of his ears tell him that much.

“What? I mean, shit- what if I said I did?” He can’t make eye contact, and he doesn’t even know why, it’s not like he’s proposing-

“You need to get laid, I need to get laid. We’re both right here. It’s a solution!”

Well, he didn’t _think_ it was like that.

Carver needs less time to think about it than he expected, because honestly, he does need to get laid. And the Blooming Rose is much too far away. Unfortunately.

He stretches his arms above his head, thinking, and from the corner of his eye watches Anders’s eyes follow his movement, up from where his shirt shows his stomach to his chest to the tips of his fingers. Watches the shadows from the only candle in the room throw patterns on the mage’s cheekbones. Alright, he thinks. There are worse solutions to worse things. And he says so.

Anders has a habit of twirling around his staff in combat in a way that, annoyingly enough, reminds Carver of his brother. But all that twirling suggests strong muscles, ones that twist and turn with the staves, and those muscles in the dim candlelight of the room don’t disappoint.

Carver is deliberate on purpose. Sure, the man may _know_ him, may not be some random faceless patron getting thrown a couple sovereigns or so, but that doesn’t mean they’re doing anything more than just having sex because they both need it. They’re helping eachother out, because that’s...that’s what friends do, or something? Attractive friends? Friends who watch you undress with a little more excitement than you expected, but you don’t mind?

Carver doesn’t want to dwell on it.

“Ever been with a man before?” It’s nice of Anders to ask, at least. Some don’t bother.

“I was a mercenary. We had our days, and nights. You take what you can get.” The mage laughs at that, shrugs off his robes like they’re nothing. Carver feels awkward in comparison, fumbling with buttons like some kind of child, tangling himself in the light sheets already. Anders climbs in next to him, on top of him, pushes Carver’s hands out of the way to undo the buttons himself. Carver feels his face reddening even more now because _Maker_ , this is _actually happening_ , Anders the mage is half-naked and about to be _completely_ naked and _Andraste’s tits_ , so is he, and they’re in the _same bed_ , and-

He swallows, tells himself it’s necessary, mutually beneficial, and tosses his clothes to the ground. Anders is strangely agile for a man his size, knows just where to move and when, and by the time his calloused hands Carver’s pants to slide them off, Carver’s, well, he’s fucking _hard_ already. He doesn’t know what he expected.

“Hawke.” Anders sounds impressed, a little raspy, mostly hot. Carver shakes his head, runs his hands down the mage’s back futilely. “Just-” He’s nervous, steadying his voice with effort- “Shut up.” And Anders laughs, but he’s turned on too, quite visibly. Carver wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and a hint of a wry smile.

The wick of the candle has descended throughout the night, until there’s only a tiny bit of flame dancing in a pool of wax. Carver, plenty messy and maybe a bit embarrassed (he doesn’t even _know_ , but he has a feeling he needs to leave) sits on the side of the bed and pulls his pants up over his ankles.

“That bad, Hawke?”

Anders is lying on his back, hair disheveled and sweaty and falling in front of his face. Carver doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t bother turning around, but he nods before standing up. “Thanks.”

The air back in his own room is colder, or maybe it’s just hotter with Anders around. Euphemisms aside, he _is_ a mage, so-

Carver slumps back against his own closed door and wonders if his brother would be jealous.


	4. Chapter Four

Grey Warden life, as it turns out, is pretty simple without a Blight.

You wake up, maybe hit some things with a sword, maybe go on a patrol (because okay, the Blight did end and the former Warden-Commander did kill a shit-ton of darkspawn including some that spoke, or something, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t still stragglers). Maybe spend hours cleaning armor, your own or someone else’s. Lunch happens, at some point. Or maybe it doesn’t. Depends on how you feel, how absorbed you are in hitting things with swords. How much someone pissed you off the day before. How much you drank last night. Who you had sex with, because if there’s one thing Grey Wardens do a lot of when there’s no Blight, it’s drink and have sex. So after some time- a couple weeks, maybe? It feels like so long, he’s losing track of time- Carver starts to feel like he’s at home.

It’s easy to avoid people, to make it look like an accident. Carver thinks it’s probably too easy. Enabling. He doesn’t _actively_ avoid Anders, just...doesn’t seek him out. Doesn’t make eye contact. Doesn’t think of the sweat that beaded on his forehead and forearms when he-

Carver doesn’t think about any of that. It was just a favor, anyway. That’s how things work, sometimes. And it’s not like he’s _really_ avoided him for so long, just- they’ve had conversations, idle ones not about much, and they’ve gone drinking with the rest of the group, they just haven’t... _talked_. Not really, anyway. Not about what they did, because it was no big deal, just a little thing that Carver just happens to be thinking about all this time later. It hasn’t been that much time anyway.

Carver hits a dummy with a sword.

“Hey, recruit! When you’re done taking your anger out on straw, check the assignments, you’re set for a patrol tonight! Don’t miss this one like you almost missed the last one!”

“Key word is almost,” Carver grumbles, sheathing the sword and wandering over to the Keep wall to see what patrol he gets the honor of being on tonight. Of course, his name is scribbled under the sundown patrol, the one that starts- well, Carver doesn’t have time to think about it, because he has to put his full armor on and make sure his sword is good and everything else is fine and dandy. Not like he expects darkspawn where they’re headed, but last time he went out unprepared thinking the same thing, he got a gash in his arm as big as Orlais, so- so fine. Full armor, then. Just because everyone kept teasing him about it for a week.

The patrol leader is already there (Carver doesn’t know his name, they haven’t talked- he calls him Beard behind his back) with some other, older Wardens he doesn’t recognize, but they don’t seem to be impatient or like they were waiting for him so they could get a move on. And they don’t even get a move on when Carver arrives, not until the footsteps of the last member of the patrol sound behind him.

“Hawke! Been a while!”

Hawke?

It’s Anders, because _of course_ it is. “Been a while- has it really?”

“You try naming the last time we were on a patrol together.”

Carver draws a complete blank and says so as the group starts walking. The scheduling of the patrols is out of his control, anyway, and he says that too. Not regretfully, or joyfully, just says it like it’s a fact because it is. And that’s that.

The silence is nothing but awkward- the rest of the patrol isn’t speaking much either, just small talk here and there. Light gossip. Wondering if it’s going to rain, or if anyone’s going to get any more dummies for combat practice considering _someone’s_ gone and hacked into them like there’s a prize instead, for Andraste’s sake.

“What’s Kirkwall like?”

Nothing like breaking an awkward silence with a more awkward conversation.

“Tense, mostly. Kind of dirty- Lowtown is seriously, actually grimy, but in Hightown everyone acts dirty. And it’s not Ferelden.”

“You seem like you know a lot about Ferelden for a Marcher.”

“A Marcher- shit, do I seem that much like one?” Carver grimaces. “I grew up in Lothering ever since I was eight, or nine, or something. Lived in Amaranthine before that, but not the city. Nowhere near where we’re at.”

“You’re shitting me! How long have you been in Kirkwall?”

“A year or so?”

“Weird.”

“You’re telling me.”

There’s a cry of approaching darkspawn from up ahead and _great_ , Carver thinks, that’s just great. The one patrol he’s on with Ser I-Like-To-Swirl-Around-My-Big-Glowing-Stick-And-Show-Off-My-Muscles,-Ooh gets attacked by darkspawn. Why the fuck are they even here? Andraste’s knickers, didn’t the Blight already end? Why don’t they all fuck off and die? Before they kill anyone else, like they did Bethany? Well-

Carver asks the darkspawn that, minus the last bit. They try to run their swords through his ribcage and instead get his through theirs. Good talk.

Beside him, Anders is holding his own, which is what Carver tells himself in order to not have his ego hurt by the fact that the mage is kicking some _ridiculous_ darkspawn ass.

“Who are you showing off for?”

Anders just grins, and- is that a smolder, or- Carver decides to officially stop trying to figure out if Anders is ever _really_ smoldering at him, mostly because he knows he won’t like the answer either way.

Because- he pauses his thoughts to chop off an archer’s head, stupid thing never saw it coming- because if Anders _is_ smoldering at him, then why the hell is _Anders_ smoldering at him? And if he’s not- well- Maker’s _trousers_ , darkspawn blood is always so disgusting, all sticky and shit, he actually drank this stuff?- well why not? And why does his resting face look so much like a smolder anyway?

The darkspawn are dead, steaming heaps of stuff that Carver doesn’t want to consider or smell for any longer than he has to.

“Well, that was fun!”

Anders is mainly blood-free, having stayed out of the thick of the battle (mage privileges, Carver thinks), and the two make eye contact as Carver’s eyes travel up from the bottom of the mage’s robes.

“Aren’t you cheery?”

“I do my best. It’s not every day we get the pleasure of killing deformed, growling monsters from underground that smell almost as bad alive as they do dead.”

“That was almost actually funny.” Carver hadn’t meant to say that out loud- he wishes he could take it back as Anders’ face twists into a grin of success. “Don’t look so satisfied, I said _almost_!”

“Good enough for me!”

 

“Sure.” Talking to Anders is almost a good distraction from how awkward Carver feels around the mage- almost. It’s always almost, like how Carver thought it was almost weird how much Anders enjoyed his...favor, and how he thought it was almost weird how much _he_ enjoyed it, and how he thought it was almost weird that he wouldn’t be totally averse to doing it again if the need arose.

Almost.

The younger Hawke scrubs darkspawn gore off his armor and thinks about how he _almost_ asked Anders for another favor, but he didn’t, and he isn’t sure if he’s glad or regretful.


	5. Chapter Five

Carver _does_ take some of Anders’ advice into account; he doesn’t visit the local brothel (he hasn’t bothered to learn the name, after all, if it’s not the Blooming Rose, does it matter?) too often, just when he has to. When he does go, he doesn’t bother learning names or faces. Sees someone different every time. But it’s not as if there’s not a constant- sure, they may all be different patrons he’s bedding week by week, but they’ve all got blonde hair and they’re not _all_ girls and when he _does_ go with a guy, which is more often than he’d like to admit (he’s only ever been with a man because he had to, and that’s still how it is, right?), they’ve usually got muscles and some five o’clock shadow but- every guy has his preferences. Carver is sure of that. After all, back in Kirkwall, he’d usually look in the Blooming Rose for elf girls, ones with dark hair, sometimes, short dark hair, who _maybe_ sometimes had tattoos or at least face paint, but that’s- well, preferences, and things change.

Carver _knows_ things change, because it’s something that just _is_ , like darkspawn being ugly and candles all burning down eventually and his brother being a massive asshole.

And to Carver it seems as if Anders just _is_ , too, like he’s not a person but a presence. He’s everywhere, twirling and shooting lightning and _smoldering_ in the Keep and in the field and in the city and behind Carver’s eyelids when he closes his eyes- that’s what annoys him the most. That’s what reminds him of his brother the most, not the fact that he’s behind his eyelids- that’d be a little weird- but the fact that he’s everywhere Carver looks all at once. Garrett is there whenever Carver wants to make a move, there whenever he makes eye contact with Merrill or almost smiles at Isabela, slapping a hand on his shoulder in that stereotypical, picturesque big brother way.

Anders is the same- whenever he wants to flirt with some girl, get his mind off the obvious, Anders is _right there_ , slapping a hand on his shoulder in less of a big brother way and more of a...Carver doesn’t know. Well, he _does_ know, but he won’t admit it to himself.

Typical.

But he can’t bring himself to ignore the guy- it should be so easy! As easy as switching patrols, calling out sick, polishing armor while the mage is out in the courtyard and the other way around, but he’s like a fucking magnet, Carver thinks. It’s annoying. But what can he do, other than swing a big sword and pretend like he doesn’t care.

That’s what he does.

“Another day, another patrol, another…nope, no darkspawn. Disappointing.”

“It’s as if you _want_ monsters to come out of the ground and, I don’t know, tear our faces off. Or try to.”

“That’d be- I mean, no, then I’d be like you, mage. You just want something to blow up, I can tell when you get all fidgety.”

It’s been quite a while since the first time Carver left the Deep Roads- something he finds a little hard to grasp, for whatever reason. It was summer when they left, but the leaves change colors outside Carver’s bedroom window a little more every week and it’s strange.

“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I need someone to practice spells on, if there’s no darkspawn?”

“Don’t act like I _won’t_ call templars.”

“I won’t act like it.” Anders crosses his arms in mock offense.

Anders’ petulance reminds Carver that he hasn’t written to his brother in months. It also reminds him why he hasn’t written to his brother in months. It _has_ only been months, right? Not a year, yet?

“Sure you won’t. You? Never.”

The mage slaps him on the back and his armor jingles. “You know me too well!”

“How many months has it been? I wish I knew you less well! I wish I had never learned you keep your pet cat in...in your robes sometimes. It is only sometimes, right? Andraste’s bloody- don’t answer that.”

Anders doesn’t answer, to Carver’s genuine surprise- just throws his head back and laughs in the annoying way that he does. The other patrol members give him looks to suggest they think he’ll wake darkspawn with his noise, and Carver doesn’t know if they really believe that or just want him to shut up. The younger Hawke doesn’t know what he believes, either.

The patrol passes uneventfully, and Carver complains to Oghren at one of the beat-up old benches in the middle of the Keep, because that’s the easiest place to clean armor and get off your feet and still have a conversation without the noise of swords and magic and other horseshit. The Senior Wardens say not to shine your boots or anything indoors because “blah, blah, the floors will get fucked up, or something, I have a beard and I’ve been here forever.” That’s a direct quote, or at least that’s how it sounds once it all reaches Carver’s ears.

“--they wouldn’t even let us _talk_ \- said we would alert darkspawn by just having a conversation. As if I don’t know they do it all the time on the night patrols! _I’m_ not even the newest recruit anymore. No reason to pick on me, is there?”

“Hawke, can I break something to you?”

Carver wants to say no, but he knows the dwarf will continue anyway. “Yeeees?”

“There’s _always_ a reason to pick on you.” His laughter echoes through the Keep and Maker, Carver hates dwarves. They think they’re so funny, just because they’re two foot tall and they all live in their little rock houses underground and think you can fall up into the sky. The only way he could hate them any more is if they had _magic_ \- not that Carver hates magic, or mages, or his brother who’s a mage (well, maybe he hates his brother, but not _because_ he’s a mage), but only because mages tell such shit jokes and always have little inside jokes with each other and dwarves do the same thing so it’d just be even worse.

“There’s plenty of reasons to pick on you, too, dwarf! The smell is only one of them. Just happens to be the most obvious, though.”

“And I’m sure you smell like daisies and buttercups and sunshine, Hawke.”

“I-” Is it a compliment to smell like daisies and buttercups and sunshine? For a _guy_ to smell like flowers and sunshine? Guys are supposed to smell like, well, Carver doesn’t know, sweat and darkspawn guts and manliness, or something. But maybe it’s a compliment. Or maybe _nothing’s_ a compliment coming from a dwarf, especially Oghren.

A hand on Carver’s shoulder- he throws it off, whirling around like he’s got something with a big sword at his back. And he might as well.

“Hawke _definitely_ smells like daisies, buttercups, lilies, petunias...the whole lot! I’ve got a good nose. You were frolicking through the flowerbed again, weren’t you? And Stroud wonders why his marigolds keep getting crushed.”

“Anders!” The mage looks smug- or that’s his face, again. His face that needs a shave, why doesn’t he ever bother ‘til he’s almost halfway to a beard? He’d look _ridiculous_ with one.

“So that’s a yes. I _knew_ it.”

Carver splutters. “You’ve- don’t you have darkspawn to kill somewhere?”

“Not in the flowerbeds.”

“I don’t- if Stroud’s flowers are getting ruined, maybe it’s your little friend’s fault. Bad enough it always ends up underfoot whenever I’m doing _anything_. You know how many times I’ve almost squashed its tail?”

“That’s some accusation. My Ser Pounce-a-lot? Squash a Senior Warden’s prized flowers? Never. And he only bothers you because he knows you’re not a cat person.”

“I’m _Fereldan_!”

“So?”

“You know, Fereldan, dog person, same thing...or maybe we’re too far north for that?”

Carver hears a meow. Maker’s breath, he _does_ keep the cat in his robes.

“What? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Ser Pounce-a-lot was telling me how evil Ser Hawke is and how he always steps on his poor little tail.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Maker, he’s _defending himself_ against a cat. Forget the Blight, _this_ is the end of the world. Might as well travel to the Deep Roads again and let the darkspawn take care of him for real this time.

“Oghren, who would you trust first, Hawke or Ser Pounce-a-lot?”

“Hawke smells better, at least! I’d take darkspawn stink and sweat over kitty piss any day of my life.”

“I _told_ you, Ser Pounce-a-lot. All we’ve got is each other.”

Carver doesn’t exactly know how he feels about the fact that he had sex with a man who talks to his cat like it’s a person.

He leaves the man to his cat- because clearly, they need some alone time- and puts his armor away, shined so well he can see his reflection in it. And- he needs to cut his bloody hair, because he’s starting to look like his brother and that’s a little appalling. The _last_ thing Carver needs is for someone to show up from Kirkwall with “oh, you look _just_ like that one Hawke man, the one who…” What has his brother probably done by now? (He _did_ check, and it _has_ pretty much been a year, which he should’ve known because the piles of snow that had been littering the ground for months are finally starting to melt.) “The one who flew in on a majestic griffon to save the Viscount in a daring escape while the Keep burned!” Or maybe that’s _too_ outrageous. Maybe leave out the griffon or replace it with a dragon. Griffons are extinct, after all.


	6. Chapter Six

“Anders.”

Andraste’s _fucking_ tits. The mage recognizes the voice- who wouldn’t- and at the same time, recognizes that it’s late at night and that it’s not _that_ hard to learn to knock on doors before entering.

“For the Maker’s sake, knock first!”

Justice’s appearance- or rather, that old dead Warden’s appearance- is off-putting, no matter how many times Anders sees it. The spirit says nothing in rebuttal, just stands too still and looks out of place.

“Well-” Anders rubs his forehead, because it _is_ late and he does need sleep but he knows that the spirit has no sense of time and that it’s no use shooing Justice away when he knows he'll be back in three hours if the door isn’t locked. “-what do you need?”

“I wish to speak with you-”

Anders understands that bit, and he says so.

“-about the new recruit.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Hawke.”

The mage is a bit incredulous. “Hawke? Why- this _isn’t_ his room! Despite what I’m sure some people would have you believe.”

“He is distracting you.”

“Distracting me? He-”

“When was the last time we spoke?”

Shit, Anders thinks, because he actually has to think about that one. It was- it _has_ been a year since Hawke arrived, so- he’s spoken to Justice since then, right? The Keep- well, it _is_ that big, but it’s not as if he was actively avoiding the spirit, so-

“Not _that_ long ago, I’m sure.”

“You are mistaken.”

“What do _you_ know of time, anyway? You’re a spirit, for fuck’s sake…”

“I know that the longer you spend _deliberating_ , the more _unjust_ the world becomes. Hawke is a distraction. The Wardens are a distraction.”

“The longer I spend ‘deliberating’, the longer the Chantry stays off my ass, so…”

Justice frowns, or the body does, or- whatever. “You would throw away your obligation to save your own skin.”

The mage pretends to think about it. “Hmmm...yes. I would!”

There’s a knock on the door. Anders looks pointedly at Justice, tries to say “this is what you do when you want to enter someone’s room!” He knows the message doesn’t get across and sighs exasperatedly, turning the door handle and-

“Delivery, for a...Ser Anders?” Carver’s got a slight smile on his face and a package in his hand, something that smells a little fishy- literally- and that may or may not be cat food. “Stroud asked me to drop this off to you since I was heading this way anyway.”

There’s a pause. “I mean- to go to my own room. To sleep.” Either his face is flushed, or, well, maybe it’s the candlelight in the hallway.

“Hawke.” Justice sounds- well, Anders can never tell what the spirit is thinking just by the look on the body’s face or how the voice sounds. Justice _kind of_ sounds annoyed, but what does Anders know.

Carver’s eyes reach Justice’s face for the first time, and he ducks to the side, because _shit_ , having known the spirit for so long Anders has forgotten the body is dead and rotting away. At least it doesn’t smell the part, Anders thinks, or hopes. Maybe he’s gone nose-dead from exposure. Is that possible?

“Want to introduce me to your, uh, friend?” Carver still isn’t facing the spirit, his eyes fixed on the floor like he’s making a very conscious effort not to turn back around.

“This is-”

“I am Justice. A spirit of the Fade.”

Carver turns around now, curiosity piqued. “You don’t look very...spirit-y. No offense.”

“This body is not my own. It belonged to a Grey Warden who died after the Blight.”

“After the Blight?”

Anders cuts in. “There was this whole mess- talking darkspawn, blah blah blah. You should have been there! It was a blast!”

“Should have contracted the taint earlier, then. My bad. Anyway- the Blight was two years ago, or...something. How are you still standing?”

“My presence slows the decaying process somewhat, but...I have been told it still occurs.”

“Your _skin_ is _peeling_.” Carver’s gaze gradually becomes less disgusted and more curious, but...still plenty disgusted. Anders can tell.

“I am aware.”

“Good. That’s good, then.” Carver nods, first to Justice, then to Anders. “I ought to, um, go.”

Anders opens his mouth- “Yes.” Justice cuts in, with a glance at Anders. The mage bristles, feathers on the shoulders of his coat ruffling. “If you want. Or you could stay, you know, have a chat…”

Carver looks to Justice apprehensively, shakes his head. “It’s late, but- I’ll see you, Anders.”

“Right. See you.”

The door closes behind him, and Anders feels all his annoyance run to his brain until the inside of his skull is buzzing. “Do you have to ruin _everything_?”

Justice looks almost legitimately confused. And _of course_ the spirit is confused, what does it know of humans and relationships, and- woah, that’s a big word, doesn’t mean it like that- “I...am unaware of what you mean.”

“You- what is your _issue_ with Hawke? Just because I talk to him sometimes instead of constantly plotting a way to free all the mages in Thedas- _Maker’s balls_!” His voice has raised considerably, the mage realizes, and it’s late, and the walls of some rooms in the Keep are thinner than he would have thought. He found that out a while back, the hard way.

“Freeing the mages is not the only issue we have discussed, Anders.”

The mage had hoped Justice had forgotten about that one.

“I know! I’m aware.”

“I do not know how much longer this body will last.”

“I know.” There's an awkward pause.

“Can we do this another time? It’s not as if you’ll drop dead tomorrow, or if all mages are going to be Tranquil by the next time the sun sets.”

Justice looks set to argue, then moves towards the doorway as if its mind had been changed. “Fine.”

“Fine, then.”

The door shuts behind the spirit, and the Maker’s fucking _nuts_ , Anders is tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't even gotten to the DA:A parts with Justice yet. You could probably tell everything I know about writing his dialogue comes from the Wiki


	7. Chapter Seven

“No, I swear, someone up top is putting us on patrols together on purpose. It’s some kind of inside joke.”

“Right, just like how Oghren is part of a conspiracy to overthrow Stroud and take control of this place and turn it into a tavern. Or a brothel. Or both.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I!” That earns Anders a punch on the shoulder. It actually _hurts_ , and the mage is impressed, because after a year Carver doesn’t appear to have put on _that_ much muscle. Upon looking closer, though, it’s obvious that’s not the case. Anders is almost jealous, because Carver looks good- really good. It’s almost a shame that the typical Grey Warden armor covers as much as it does.

After a year- that’s weird to think about. All the seasons came and gone, once, but the Hawke still seems to bumble around like he doesn’t know where he’s going. And hell, a year since they first went to the tavern together, since they first went back to the Keep and did each other a favor? Carver wasn’t even that muscular back then, but…

Justice was on to something, it kills Anders to realize- the mage will send a fireball careening at darkspawn like it’s nothing, but is Hawke doing okay? He’s fine, probably, the boy is tough enough. But, out of the corner of his eye, does it look like he’s surrounded by hurlocks? No, that was just some kind of mind trick. Seeing wrong. Anders is just- distracted, and it pisses him off.

Anders feels an elbow in his side- an older Warden, not a Senior Warden yet but old enough to be in charge of him. “Eyes on the road, mage, not on…” She trails off, and for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t staring at Hawke! Not on purpose. Though he’s sure that’s what they all say.

Distractions are bad, Anders knows. He doesn’t want to end up freezing a fellow Warden, or setting a tree on fire instead of a bunch of darkspawn (again). Anders also knows how cliché the whole situation is, how much he seems like a stereotypical kid with hearts in his eyes, staring at a girl halfway across a field- but he doesn’t have a _crush_ on Hawke. Crushes are for little kids. He’s a grown man. A grown man, with a pet cat. He has Ser Pounce-a-lot, so he doesn’t need Hawke.

Well, his cat isn’t as good-looking or as human as Hawke. And- now his thoughts are bordering on off-putting, even to him. Okay. Eyes on the road.

Eyes on- oh, Andraste.

There’s shouts from the Wardens around him, as darkspawn stagger their way up the hill towards the patrol. Carver sounds especially angry- “It’s not a fucking Blight, go back to the Deep Roads!”- but no one is especially excited that an almost uneventful patrol was ruined.

Anders feels his magic start to burn under his palms and thrusts his staff forward, freezing a particularly nasty hurlock where it stands. The sound of metal on twisted, blackened flesh is what he likes to hear, and the mage watches his lightning bounce from darkspawn to darkspawn with satisfaction.

Until- how many of them were there, again? Haven’t they killed a lot already? Anders throws a fireball- it takes a considerable amount down, screeching as they burn, and more step over the corpses towards the rest of the patrol. Well, wonderful.

He hears a yell, and oh, _fuck_ , his first thought is Carver. Carver. Is he okay? Was that him? They didn’t get too close to him, did they? He doesn’t have the time to find out- but the number of darkspawn starts to dwindle as more fall to blades and arrows and well-placed spells.

“Eat shit!” The last falls, frozen and shattered on the ground, and Anders puts his staff back on his back. Of course, now he has to clean his armor _again_ , when he just did the other day- although at least he’s not like Hawke, who just cleaned his last night-

Right, Hawke.

“Hawke! Are you okay?” Carver gives Anders a look, from across the patrol. He slows down to match the mage’s pace, among the gazes of their fellow Wardens.

“Fine. What, did- _fuck_.” Carver curses at the ground. “I yelled out loud, didn't I? Maker’s _balls_ , I was just startled. Now I look like an idiot. Great patrol.”

Anders laughs- there's relief in his voice that he hopes Hawke can't hear. "And here I was thinking you were gravely wounded, taking down a massive hurlock warrior to save your patrol, and with your dying wish you would profess your love to me. You're disappointing."

“Don’t get your hopes up next time then, mage.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Carver scowls- or pretends to, as the rest of his steps are lighter on the way back to the Keep, barely touching the grass and dirt beneath his boots. Light on his feet or not, there’s mud caked on his boots from the trek, and arriving back at the Keep he frowns and means it. But the Hawke sits in silence, scraping mud onto the floor with a little dagger. Anders watches him, because he’s so _precise_ , with his fingers that look clumsy but they’re not. They _look_ clumsy, but by the Maker, maybe with some direction and some incentive and candlelight and without clothes- Anders fidgets. He can’t think of that, not here.

Carver puts his dagger away and stands up, stretching. “Is it almost dinner?” He doesn’t look at Anders, instead watches his own hands reach towards the sky, but the mage knew the question was directed at him anyway. Knew Hawke was aware of his presence.

“The sun has got to be setting by now. We could go check.”

Hawke shrugs. “Let’s go, then.”

The halls of Vigil’s Keep are empty, filled only with the echoing sound of the men’s boots on the floor. As the two reach the dining hall, though, the sound of silverware clanking and Wardens (undoubtedly Oghren) burping grows in volume.

“Finally! I’m bloody starving.” Carver slides in next to Oghren, who gives a nod of welcome with some mysterious liquid in his beard and an even more mysterious meat on his plate. “What’s the mystery meat of the day? Wait- don’t tell me. That’ll ruin it.”

Anders, sitting beside him, shakes his head, blonde hair falling about his face. “It doesn’t have suckers and it’s not scaly. Kind of a shame.” He piles some on his plate, watching out of the corner of his eye as Carver does the same.

“Sho-” Carver swallows, puts his fork down- “So, does your... _friend_ not eat? At all? No wonder he looks like that.”

Anders isn’t sure- well, okay, Justice is his friend. Or he’s a friend to Justice, because even spirits deserve friends and it’s not as if anyone else is jumping out of their seats to give it one.

“I’ve never asked. I suppose Justice _could_ eat, all the right parts are still there…”

“So why doesn’t he?”

“Why don’t you ask?”

Carver almost chokes on his drink. “You’re joking, right? Just _looking_ at him gives me the creeps. I think my skin’s crawling just thinking about it.”

Oghren laughs, and it echoes around the room. A few heads turn. “No wonder we’re your only friends!”

“You’re not- I’ve got friends in Kirkwall!”

“Sure you do.” Anders is almost in tears now- Carver’s face is bright red, so much that it looks like he’s about to explode, and Oghren is laughing so hard that more than just a few heads are turning.

“What’s so funny?” He twirls a fork in his right hand, other hand scratching the back of his neck to hide the redness, and in the midst of it all Anders finds himself thinking about his hands again. Andraste damn it all.

“Nothing, squirt. I’m sure you’re the most popular guy in the Free Marches.” The dwarf just shakes his head, going back to his meal- and Anders does too, although it’s cold and kind of _floppy_ by now.

“We should,” the mage takes a second to chew, “go out tonight.”

Carver shakes his head, to Anders’ surprise. “I eat or drink anything else tonight and you’ll see someone explode _without_ magic, mage.”

Anders’ mind goes to something _dirty_ and _what_ has gotten into him today? He’s never like this- well, never until he goes to one of many local brothels and sets himself straight. But regardless-

“Oghren and I will go by ourselves, then! We’ll talk about how much of a loser you are, in between flirting with beautiful women. All night long.”

Carver looks almost regretful, but turns his expression into a wry smile.. “And when you’re both late for your patrols tomorrow because you’re passed out in some corner of Amaranthine, you can explain it to the higher-ups.”

“We will!”

“Good, then.”

“Good.”

Carver stands up, after a pause full of silence, mumbles something about having to change out of his armor. Anders nods, half-paying attention, half-sliding the remainder of his mystery meal back and forth around his plate. He gives up, eventually, and walks a little bit more slowly than usual on his way out of the dining hall so he doesn’t end up at the Crown and Lion waiting around for Oghren to arrive. But by the time the mage arrives, he wishes he hadn’t procrastinated- nearly every table is full of Wardens, some in their blue and silver, some not- all having passed the word around from the dwarf, one way or another. He manages to fit in across from Oghren at a corner table, and the redhead slides him a pint without either of them even thinking about it.

“You,” Oghren starts off with gruffly, “need to get laid.”

Anders sprays his drink across the table. “What?”

The dwarf grins slyly, shakes his head. “You need to get laid! Or get enough self-control to stop ogling Hawke. Either way.”

“We are _not_ having this conversation.”

“Can you afford to keep buying yourself drinks?”

Anders groans. “I’m an apostate with no family. Take a guess!”

“So you _are_ ogling him.”

“I don’t ogle! And I feel like I just walked into a romance novel. A shitty one.”

“I’m trying to help! You need it.”

“Not from _you_.”

“Very funny, magey.”

“I’d set your beard on fire, but it might be too damp for that.”

“And I’d step on your foot, but you wouldn’t notice. Too busy daydreaming about Carver.”

“Maker, I hate you, dwarf!”

As the night descends, Anders realizes he _could_ have denied Oghren the conversation earlier and gotten away just fine. His glass, hours old now, has only drops left but isn’t empty. The dwarf, on the other hand, has downed pint after pint without blinking- but that has to be a dwarf thing. Anders swears surface dwarves must drink so much to get over their fear of falling up into the sky. Or- well, it made sense when he first thought about it.

The mage excuses himself, waves goodbye to Oghren (who barely notices, and turns his head to flirt with a lady tavern-goer), and starts the trek back to the Keep.

Oghren’s relationship advice was less than worth considering, but the mage considers it anyway as his path ends at Carver Hawke’s bedroom door.

“Anders?” He doesn’t look like he was sleeping- thank Andraste. The warrior cracks a smile, running a hand over the back of his neck, avoiding the mage’s eyes- why? “You went to the Crown and Lion with _Oghren_ and walked home on your own? Did you crash into anything?”

“I-” The tips of Anders’ fingers tingle- “Oghren’s still there. I had to talk to you.” His feet move on their own, and Carver retreats into his room, looking into the mage’s eyes for the first time that night. He seems to _understand_ something, but Anders knows it’s on the tip of Hawke’s tongue as much as it is his.

“How many drinks did you have?”

“Only one- I _know_ ,” he interrupts himself at Carver’s incredulous look, “I wasn’t much in the mood for drinking. But I suppose the dwarf is on his eleventh pint by now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he drank half of mine while I wasn’t looking.”

Carver nods, looking away again.

“Hawke-”

“ _Carver_ ,” the tips of his ears are red, “and you want to have sex with me.”

Anders is floored.

“Yes,” and his voice doesn’t even sound like his own. It can’t be the alcohol, not this time, though the Maker knows he’s used that excuse far too often. “Do you-”

“Yes,” Carver’s voice doesn’t sound like _his_ , and it’s all very strange and very much what Anders wants, and the hunger in Carver’s eyes says it’s very much what _he_ wants, and that’s not what the mage expected at all. Well- he didn’t expect the man to say _no_ , so…

There are candles lit already, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and it throws Anders off the way Carver is already pulling his shirt off his shoulders. “I guess you aren’t much up for talking?” The man’s whole body shakes with laughter, and he leans in until his lips meet Anders’ neck, and oh, _Andraste_.

Anders grabs Carver’s hand, feels the man’s nimble fingers move beneath his own, lets them guide him into the bed in the corner of the room. The door is pulled shut behind them- Carver reaching around to lock it, he’s everywhere at once and Anders is overwhelmed in the best possible way. The Hawke is less deliberate this time, because he’s not doing a favor, and he knows it, and they _both_ know it and the mage is still surprised at how much Carver _knows_ and how transparent he must have been. How long has he known? Has he wanted this, too? Since when?

He’s kneeling on the bed, now, and the blankets are strewn aside but the mattress is soft beneath his weight and his robes are lying beside him. Carver’s eyes travel down, from his face to the wispy hair on his chest to the trail on his stomach to his smallclothes and- _down_.

Carver, as confident as he seems, is embarrassed, blushing _everywhere_. His hands aren’t steady but they’re just as capable as always, Anders is sure. He takes the younger man’s hands in his own and leads them down, and Anders inches his way forwards until he’s kneeling over Carver and- the Hawke’s hands reach the little clothes Anders has left and he realizes now how painfully fucking hard he actually is.

“This is what you want?” Anders has to be sure.

And Carver _is_ sure- he wasn’t sure before, not until he saw the mage at his door, not until- he says so. And Anders exhales and smiles.

Carver, beneath him, close enough to feel the energy (or magic, or adrenaline) flowing through him, grips his back and pulls himself up until he can kiss the fair hair on Anders’ chest. “I think,” he’s short of breath, overwhelmed but exhilarated, “Maker, I think I love you. Is that- that’s bloody _weird_ , isn’t it.”

Anders agrees that it is, mumbles something along the lines of _we’ll see what you think come morning_ , and pushes Carver back down so he can plant one on his lips.


	8. Chapter Eight

Carver realizes, slowly as he wakes up, that he really has bulked up over the months. Swinging a sword helps, and wearing such heavy armor- he wonders what his brother would think of his new and improved physique. Surely a mage like him couldn’t have put on that much muscle in that amount of time.

Though- the arms sprawled around the Hawke as he awakens are not exactly weak.

“Anders,” his voice is muffled by the pillow, so he turns, eyes still closed. “Anders.”

The mage shifts. So he’s alive. Carver doesn’t know why he’s _relieved_ , but he shakes off the feeling, focuses on the sunlight falling on Anders’ disheveled hair and his bare chest and the marks down his neck and- did he do that? Carver isn’t sure if he’s still dreaming. He puts his lips on Anders’ neck, watches as the blue eyes blink open, blurred with sleep, and follow his movement, and he _knows_ it’s not a dream and that even the Fade couldn’t possibly look this good.

Anders’ eyes close slowly, weighed down with tiredness, and he squeezes the mage’s hand until his eyes reopen and his fingers tingle with magic that makes Carver’s eyes widen because it’s right _there_.

The candles have been out for hours, burned themselves down because neither man remembered to blow them out, both collapsed exhausted and content.

“Still think you _love_ me, Hawke?” Anders’ voice is hoarse but triumphant.

“Ask me again after breakfast.” And Carver doesn’t know where he’s getting all this from- _Carver_ , who was convinced along with everyone else he’s ever known that he couldn’t get laid unless he was paying someone. Well- no, he might’ve had Merrill. _Maybe_ , if he hadn’t gone away- but that didn’t matter now. He feels almost dirty, thinking about that kind of things while Anders…

“I can do that,” Anders assures him, and he does- breakfast in the dining hall is eggs and some kind of sausage, and the mage stops Carver in the hallway to the Keep’s exterior to ask again.

“Close your eyes,” Carver says, and his hands are steady. “I’m about to plant the most romance novel move on you,”

Anders grins. “You’re not supposed to _tell_ -” and he’s cut off by Carver’s kiss. Carver thinks the mage tastes like _magic_ , whatever that means, but a voice in the back of his head tells him it’s probably just breakfast. But Anders melts beneath him, shoved up against the wall, and they only let each other go when one of the two murmurs something about a patrol that they’re probably missing.

“We never got a chance to talk,” Anders whispers in Carver’s ear on the patrol, as the two traipse through tall grass close but not _too_ close. But Oghren is there, too, and Carver can tell he had something to do with something by the way Anders avoids the dwarf’s eyes in such a careful way. The group finds darkspawn huddled in a hole in the ground, and the blonde mage closes it eagerly, lifting up stones with ease while the air around him buzzes with magic enough to make the hair on the back of Carver’s neck stand up. He wants to grab Anders now, take his hands, have that magic course through him, but- there’s plenty of people standing around, and he makes himself take one last look at the darkspawn as they disappear as an attempt to make himself less _bothered_. It works, because he can’t think about those kinds of things while staring into a twisted grey face. Ew.

The patrol returns- everyone pats Anders on the back, and Carver has one eye on Oghren, hoping he or anyone else didn’t see that his hand may have stayed on the mage’s back a _little_ longer than everyone else’s.

But Oghren notices, because of course he does. As inebriated as he seems to be the majority of the time, he surely doesn’t miss much, which Carver finds more terrifying than anything else about him.

Anders takes Carver’s hand as soon as the other Wardens are far enough away, pulls him down hallways and- “Where are we going?” The Hawke is grinning, but he’s curious.

“Just-”

“Yes, where are you going?” Anders stops dead in his tracks. “Justice,” he says, and there’s no connotation in his voice. The word echoes down the narrow hallway, and Carver’s hand slips out of Anders’ with reluctance.

Justice is tall, for a decaying body. Carver doesn’t know what to make of the spirit, or its body, or the fact that its clothes hang off it like...like a clothes hanger. He tries not to make eye contact, and fails.

“If you could excuse us-”

Anders narrows his eyes, but looks towards Carver sympathetically. He nods, ducking around a corner and- it’s not right to eavesdrop. Carver knows that. But…

“This body will not last much longer.” What?

“I know.” Anders sounds exasperated. As if they’ve been over that fact many, many times already.

“Yet you continue to do nothing, as you have always done.”

“I- I’m not- Andraste’s _knickers_!”

“You choose to spend your days fawning over the Hawke recruit, and ignore everything we have been speaking about for months.”

“I’m not ignoring it- we’ve been talking for _months_! You _just_ said it! You- you’re my friend, Justice, but I needed a _break_.” Carver- he’s a _break_? No, he’s reading too far into it. Idiot.

“You and I both know I can hardly afford to take a break.”

“I’m not- we’ll find a way somehow, just give me time.”

“You have had plenty of time, Anders.”

“I’m the only one who can help you!” Justice pauses at this, and Carver knows because there’s a break in the conversation that seems uncomfortably long. He wants to butt in, say something, say _anything_ that might make it less awkward out in the hall. But he’d give himself away, and…

“We will speak again later. You are distracted.”

“Always with the _distracted_ ,” Anders mumbles, but Carver hears Justice’s footsteps- or his body’s footsteps, and knows he’s out of earshot already.

“Carver, you can come out from there.” Carver’s heart stops. “I knew you were there- it’s fine.”

“I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, that’s...it’s shitty. Whatever that was, it was private, I’m sure.” Anders takes Carver’s hands in his own- it’s always the hands, Carver thinks with some amusement- rubbing them absently as he finds words. “Don’t worry about it. It’s...nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” Carver mentions, but he doesn’t want to argue. Wants to make sure the mage knows it, but doesn’t know how.

Anders swings his and Carver’s hands from side to side absently. “It’s nothing for the middle of the hallway.” Carver nods, because that’s all he can do.

“We should get to the dining hall.”

“So Oghren can get on our asses? He can’t wait to! He’s almost bursting with how much he wants to make fun of us. As if he wasn’t trying his hardest to be my wingman last night.”

“Then he just wants to revel in how he really _did_ get you laid!”

“Of course!”

And that’s what Oghren _does_ , him and the rest of the dining hall, because the dwarf is talking to some younger Wardens at the table and Carver is sure he’s telling them all about his triumph as a matchmaker. Wonderful, Carver thinks, but it _is_ nice to have some attention. Must be how his brother feels, he thinks. And for once, he thinks of writing to Garrett, if only to tell him he got laid. And Mother would want to know about...everything _except_ that. So, two different letters. Clearly labelled.

“How’s Amaranthine’s new favorite couple?” Oghren bellows, and _Maker_ , Carver is _sure_ he’s red all over. He’s impulsive- “We’re not a couple,” and Anders says the same thing but reaches behind Carver’s back and twirls his fingers with the Hawke’s, discreet but enough to make Carver grin and turn a deeper shade of red, he’s sure.

The two sit down next to Oghren, and he grins, turning to nod to the young recruits next to him as they raise their eyebrows and giggle. Carver rolls his eyes, trying as best he can to ignore them and keep his eyes on his food as he feels more and more gazes on him. He wonders how his brother does it- his brother, the apostate, who should be ducking and hiding but he’s _not_. He never is. And by now- by now he’s probably rich, what with everything Varric and Bartrand said they’d find down there. Fucking _Bartrand_. Carver briefly wonders if Varric ever had a chance to kick that guy’s ass. He hopes he did, because if he had to pick one of his brother’s friends he actually liked and _not_ because he was attracted to them, he’d pick Varric. There really aren’t any other options- except Fenris, but neither Andraste nor the Maker could help Carver if he looked at Fenris the wrong way, because he knew his brother and the elf had _something_ going on. Carver wonders if Mother ever found out about that- sorry, Leandra, both your sons are good for nothing and fuck men. Bet you wish Bethany-

Carver stuffs food in his mouth to stop himself from thinking. That makes sense to him, somehow. The Warden knows he has _Warden duties_ to attend to after lunch, tending to... _something_ , he’ll check the assignments board, but he’d rather make eye contact with Anders behind Oghren’s back and think about the marks he left on him below his clothes and how many more he’d like to leave.

Sorry again, Mother.

He whispers all that to Anders, as soon as the two stand up at the same time. The assignment board has nothing interesting, just the same shit he does every day, but no new patrols means he can spend of the rest of the day after his duties as free as he wants. So he organizes the weapon racks (the newest recruits never know where anything goes, but they’ll learn soon enough), putting axes on the axe rack and shields in a neat pile in the corner of the small room- he uses the term lightly, because the armory is only one step up from a closet, but it’s close enough.

“You are the one Anders has been distracted by.” Carver almost drops a sword on his foot, but catches it in time to swing it around at the voice. It’s Justice- and that makes it harder than Carver expected to lower the sword.

“If you say so,” Carver tries to hide the fact that the spirit (or its rapidly decaying body, rather) creeps him out- he backs up into a rack full of bows, curses the Maker and Andraste and everyone else when he realizes he’ll have to clean the whole mess up.

“This Warden’s body is failing me.” Carver resists the urge to say ‘obviously’, but the spirit sounds deadly serious, and that’s what scares him.

“Anders has offered to find me a new host body- a _dead_ one, preferably, but perhaps more recently. I would not much like to inhibit Kristoff’s body until it becomes a skeleton.”

Kristoff must have been the Warden and, well, you learn something new every day, Carver supposes.

“And I’m distracting him from that? He _offered_ , he didn’t make some kind of bloody pact!”

“That is not the only matter we have been discussing. There is the issue of the treatment of mages across Thedas.”

So _that’s_ the kind of person- spirit- Justice is. Justice. _Justice_. Of course.

“What about it?” Carver plays dumb, because- his brother is a mage, Anders is a mage, and so is Merrill, so was Bethany and his father, but mages are dangerous. The Hawke had seen enough blood mages during his time in Kirkwall to know that. Hadn't he?

“While Anders walks free, mages across Thedas are caged in Circles or hunted by templars, labelled apostate and made Tranquil for the smallest of offenses. This you must know.”

“What about- what about Tevinter? They enslave their own kind for not being born with magic. Slavery isn’t _justice_. You of all people should understand that bit.”

“Tevinter is the exception.”

_There's always an exception,_ Carver wants to say. But- he knows there's no use arguing, so he just shrugs, turns around to put the bows strewn aside back on their shelves. “I’ve got to get back to this.” It’s a bullshit excuse, but it seems to work, because when he turns around again, Justice is gone. And Carver shivers, because for a dead guy, he’s weirdly _quiet_. No creepy undead shuffling of feet, or any other weird corpse noises…

...for which Carver is a _little_ grateful.


	9. Chapter Nine

_Dear Garrett,_

(No, that’s too friendly. It’s his fault you’re here, anyway. His fault you’re here and talking to yourself alone in your room like a-)

_~~Dear Garrett,~~ _

_Garrett,_

_How are you?_ (You would’ve hated him more if he’d left you home, anyway.) _Hope all is well._ (Hope Mother is well. But you would have heard if something had happened- right?) _Things are ~~okay~~ good here, I suppose._ (Should you mention the sex now, or later? Later.) _Grey Warden legends do fail to mention a few things, though! I've yet to do anything remotely glorious or honorable since arriving. ~~Have had some fun though~~ In fact, most of it is painful, dirty, often horrific work._ (Not _that_ horrific. Most of the time. But you ought to make him feel a little bad. It’s brotherly love!) _Thanks a lot! (In case you forgot that it's your fault I'm here.)_ (He...you aren’t actually sure if you think he’s forgotten or not. But just in case.)

_The positive is that ~~the tavern is half decent~~_ (Be serious!) _I'm alive and part of something greater. I've a chance to prove myself. Maybe I'll even step out of your big ~~stupid~~ ~~ugly~~ fat shadow!_ (You’re convincing yourself here as much as you’re convincing him- and Mother, because you know Garrett will read this to her. He better.) _Thing is, Ferelden already has a hero that stopped the Blight. Pfft!_ (Did you have to write “pfft” on paper, for real?) _Big ~~fucking~~ deal, right?_

_Say hello to Mother ~~and Gamlen~~_ (No, you probably should, you _are_ related) _and Gamlen for me.  
Carver_

_P.S.:  
Sorry for waiting so long. I was kind of ~~involved~~ busy. And trying not to die. But, hey, look at me, alive! And  don’t tell Mother\- I met a guy (I know) and he’s a mage (I know!) and I’ll tell you more when we see each other again because letters can get intercepted (Gamlen) and...yeah. If you get yourself killed before the next time I see you, I swear I’ll have Anders (that's his name) learn blood magic and resurrect you just so I can kick your ass. (Not really, probably. But no promises!)_ (That definitely is a promise.)

_Hope everything with you and your broody elf is going well. He seemed fond of you._ (It was gross.) _Don’t ~~fuck~~ mess it up! And tell Varric I said hello. And Merrill. And Isabela. And tell Aveline if she ever wants a Grey Warden on the city guard ~~, she can~~...well, she’ll say no anyway. She’s too proud, but don’t say I said that. Just tell everyone I said hello, even your elf._

_Seriously, don’t ~~die~~ get yourself killed.  
Your brother._

(At least you didn’t say anything sappy.)


	10. Chapter Ten

“Carver, you have a minute, right?”

“Only for you, babe!” Carver turns around- Anders is grinning in the way he does, the way that looks like a smoulder. So the Hawke pokes fun, because after three years of knowing each other and two of fucking each other and one of being each other’s _partner_ (it’s still weird for Carver to think about), he can poke as much fun as he likes.

“You’re disgusting.”

It’s 9:34 Dragon, which Carver only knows because he checked the calendar this morning. It isn’t his birthday yet, not for a couple months, but it’s getting there.

The Warden kisses his boyfriend’s neck, and even the _thought_ of that is weird to him. He hasn’t heard back from his brother, but he’s sure he’s fine. Mother would have said something if he wasn’t. He’s probably sitting pretty in some mansion, and honestly, Carver is jealous but not jealous enough to run away from the Wardens and catch a boat across the sea to go home.

_Home_. Weird that he’s in Ferelden where he was born, where he lived for the first eighteen years of his life, but he still calls _Kirkwall_ home.

He kisses his boyfriend.

“Seriously, though, Carver.” Anders closes the door behind him with a click. Carver’s room is the same as always, as cluttered as it has been for the last three years. He’s outgrown his recruit armor, and his new outfit is shinier and bluer and more _majestic_ than anything else Carver’s ever worn. Three years, and Carver decides maybe being a Grey Warden isn’t so bad. He’s killing darkspawn. Making sure no one has to be the next Bethany, little by little. Or...that’s what he _likes_ to think.

“Have you seen Justice? He’s been-” Anders rubs his right temple absently- “making sure I don’t forget about my offer.”

“You _offered_ , you’re doing a favor! Andraste’s tits, he shouldn’t hound you about it. _Spirits_ ,” he adds, as if he knows anything about spirits beyond what he knows of Justice.

“He says I have an obligation. To uphold my agreement...among other things.”

“Fuck him,” Carver says decisively, knowing Anders won’t settle just for that, and neither will Justice, but knowing thinking about it any more will just stress the mage out. So he kisses the back of Anders’ head, and his neck and tries not to think about it either, because it’ll stress _him_ out. Of course, that doesn’t last long, because-

“He knows I’m not going to kill someone for him.”

“Then why does he keep bugging you?”

Anders shakes his head. “I’ve been free for four years. And other mages…you told me about the Kirkwall templars. About Meredith. Her...tactics. Maybe he has a point.”

“Even if he does- what could you do? Even as a Grey Warden, if you kill templars, you’re a dangerous apostate and they make you Tranquil. If you’re lucky. You _know_ that, Anders.” Carver _hopes_ he knows it.

“No. Being a Warden- that has to mean something.”

“Is that why you’re a Warden?”

“I’m a Warden because if I wasn’t, I’d be back in the Circle. The Hero of Ferelden conscripted me. To save my ass, or because they needed more Wardens...who knows!”

“At least you didn’t have to die your way in.”

“You were a show off.” Anders retorts, and Carver grins, bowing his head. “Thanks!”

“Have you checked assignments yet?”

“Not yet. I’ll be right back.” The Hawke stretches his arms over his head- his clothes are a little small on him now, but he tries his best to ignore it, figures he’ll get some more hand-me-downs from Garrett one of these days. He closes the door behind him and feels the mage’s gaze through the wood all the way down the hall.

“Hawke! Someone was looking for you.”

“What else is new?”

He doesn’t know who he’s talking to, some Warden a little older than him by the sound of it, but he turns away anyway. It was probably Anders looking for him a while back, and-

“Stroud wants to see you. You, and a few others...know any of these Wardens?”

There’s a list of names. Carver knows exactly none of them, and tells the other person that. They nod, and run off, and Carver is a bit worried that he won’t get back to Anders as soon as he said he would. Stroud. A Senior Warden, one of the best-

“Hawke, there you are. Right, that’s everyone.” Jean-Marc Stroud knows Carver, pulled him out of the Deep Roads himself. Not that Carver remembers much of it. But he appreciated the gesture (can it be called just that?), and figures now that he can’t be in trouble with other Wardens are here, ones he’s seen but never met.

The man’s mustache moves as he talks, kind of quivers and trembles, and Carver is enraptured. He realizes too late that Stroud was _actually_ talking, with a grave look on his face, mentioning the Free Marches and-

The Free Marches. _Kirkwall._ After _three years_. Stroud mentions a mission, and its grave importance, something that has to be top secret and Maker, he knows Anders won’t like this. But- he’s going to the Free Marches, and that’s something. If only he could…

“Stroud! Ser. Can I ask you something?” The other Wardens are gone, dispersed to do their various duties of the day.

“Hawke. You may.”

“Anders- Well- Is there any way we could bring one more Warden with us to the Free Marches? Ser.”

Stroud frowns, and Carver knows the answer, knows it was stupid to ask. “The mission to the Free Marches is confidential, Hawke, you know this. We have enough Wardens involved already. We can not spare the Keep any more than we already are or it will fall into shambles.”

Or the short answer. _You can’t bring your boyfriend with you everywhere, Hawke_. Sounds like something Aveline would say, just with _Carver_ instead of _Hawke_. _Hawke_ in Kirkwall can do whatever he likes. _Carver_ , well...

Boyfriend is _still_ weird.

But orders are orders. And he owes Stroud his life, literally, so- so he nods and thanks him and goes to check assignments for real this time, because the Senior Warden told him they leave tomorrow and he might as well not come back to get his ass kicked.

“Guess who’s on armory duty!”

“Not you?” Anders crosses his arms in front of his chest. Carver doesn’t mention the mission, because he can’t, and doesn’t mention that he’s going away tomorrow because that’s the kind of thing you don’t mention in the middle of the day. _Tomorrow_. Why so soon? What's the rush?

“I’ve got the mabari,” Carver announces, head held up high because at least he gets to spend his last day around the Keep for a while washing dogs. As much as he used to argue when Bethany would beg their parents for a dog, the mabari are tough and smart and slobber all over Carver’s face and he loves it.

“I can’t believe you’re actually happy about that.” Ser Cat Person shakes his head.

“I can’t believe you’re still bitter about Ser Pounce-a-lot. It was inevitable!”

“He was well taken care of. There was _no reason_ for me to have to give him away.”

“You can still see him every time we go to the tavern now anyway. He catches mice, like a good cat. If there was such a thing,” Carver adds before he’s caught slipping.

“He caught plenty of mice in the Keep!”

“All he did in the Keep was meow and be underfoot.”

“If Ser Pounce-a-lot were here, I’d make you apologize.”

“Good thing he’s not, then.”

Anders sighs, defeated, and straightens out his robes. “Good luck washing the beasts.”

“Have fun arranging the swords! The newest recruits now are even less organized than the last bunch. I heard it’s a bloody disaster in there.”

Anders grins, rolls his eyes, gives Carver a peck on the lips before heading down the hall. Carver- though he told himself he wouldn’t, watches Anders go before he starts down the other way. If he’s late, the Hawke thinks, he’ll only have the Maker to answer to, because he’s heading to the Free Marches tomorrow, and he _has_ to tell Anders in person before he leaves or it’ll eat away at him.

He rehearses what he plans to tell the mage on the mabari, but covered in suds and barking happily, they don’t seem to care at all. Carver wishes everything was just that easy.

Anders is back in his room before Carver is (he had to wash himself first, because there was no way he was having such a serious conversation while smelling like seven dogs), and the mage doesn’t look up when Carver closes the door behind him.

“I have to tell you something.” It’s the _worst_ way to start a conversation, Carver knows, but it has Anders pause rearranging his bookshelf and turn to look him in the eyes. Which, Carver realizes, makes the whole thing harder.

“Stroud- he talked to me, and a few other Wardens- I’m not in trouble.” He can’t find the best way to say it. “He gave us a mission. We’re looking for something- I can’t talk about it. Which is stupid, right? We’re all Wardens here.”

“When do you leave?”

Anders is giving him the same lost puppy look he did before the first time they had sex and fuck, it’s effective as anything. For someone who doesn’t like dogs, the mage has mastered the look weirdly well, Carver thinks.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“You’re joking!”

“I wish!” Carver scratches the back of his head to give his hands something to do other than fidget and look uncomfortable. Which he is. “I didn’t exactly volunteer. And I asked if you could tag along, but...it's Stroud. Him and the mustache, between the two of them I can’t argue anything. You know?”

Anders nods.

“You’ll have to kick darkspawn ass twice as hard while I’m not here.”

“As if I don’t already.”

“You know what I mean!”

It’s late, and Anders lights the candles in his room with one hand while letting his hair down with the other. He reaches under the bed when both hands are free, pulling out a bottle of some ale Carver doesn’t recognize, covered in enough dust he wonders if Anders was even the original owner.

“How long have you had that stashed?”

“I was waiting,” he reaches in a drawer for a bottle opener, “for a special occasion. Such as you running off to the Free Marches and not knowing when you’ll be back. Special enough.”

“But I _will_ be back. Don’t do anything crazy,” Carver’s face is serious, “and don’t let Justice talk you into anything. He’s a spirit, he doesn’t know anything.”

“Maybe you’re right.” The bottle fizzes as Anders pops it open, but he doesn’t say anything and his face gives nothing away. “I don’t have any glasses. Never thought I’d need to share this!”

Carver grins as the mage does, shakes his head. “Who needs ‘em?” He reaches out for the bottle, takes a swig, widens his eyes as it goes down. “If being a Grey Warden was all about this and less about Joinings and darkspawn, I would have signed up earlier. Or signed up at all.”

Anders laughs, and it’s real, bouncing up from his stomach. The bottle is drained quickly, between the two of them, sliding down their throats until they can taste it in each other’s mouths as they kiss. Carver is hungry, knows he can’t have this again until the Maker only knows how long, leaves purple blossoms on Anders’ skin and works his way down.

Everything moves quickly- there’s a feeling about their last night for a long time that makes everything feel rushed. Take it slow, Carver’s mind says, but he can’t and the rest of his body knows and Anders straddled above him does too.

By the time Carver gets his smallclothes off the mage is towering above him, reaching for the small jar on the nightstand before leaning down to kiss the Hawke’s chest. Electricity pops in the air and Anders’ fingertips _glow_ and _oh_ , Carver thinks, having a mage as a boyfriend isn’t half bad. The glow disappears from view as Carver turns around, solid against the thin sheets, but he can _feel_ it behind him and wishes he could find a way for that magic to ensure the next morning never comes. He only has a moment to consider how cliché that is before all he’s considering is _Anders_ and the feel of the pillow on his face and the mage’s hands on his back.


	11. Chapter Eleven

_Dear Anders,_

(You can start this one with Dear because it’s not to your stupid brother. Who never wrote you back. Two years!)

_You’re still sleeping, ~~and hopefully~~ or at least you’re pretending to be asleep. Hopefully, my armor doesn’t ~~make noise~~ ~~clunk~~ clank as loud as I think it does sometimes. You look awfully ~~good~~ ~~pretty~~ peaceful sleeping. This is quieter and easier because I know I’d mess  something up saying goodbye to you in person. That’s what I do!_

_I hope they don’t give you too much work now that a few of us are leaving for a while. Oh and since I didn’t say anything to Oghren, say ~~he smells~~ … okay, say he smells. Anything else would be sappy or strange._

_If I get a letter from my family while I’m gone (ironic, right? Because I’d be in the Free Marches, and they’d be right there! But sending a letter all the way back here!), you can read it. If it’s from my ~~idiot~~ ~~asshole~~ brother, it’ll probably be ~~embbarrasing~~ ~~embarassing~~ embarrasing but you can read it anyway. You should have a key to my room still (when did I give it to you again? ~~three~~ two years ago?) but in case you don’t, there’s one on top of the door frame. I hope no one else reads this. You’re tall enough to reach there, right?_

_I love you. ( ~~wow that’s weird~~ ) Sorry for not saying it yesterday. Seriously, though, don’t do anything stupid! Or I’ll walk all the way back to the Keep from the Free Marches myself. Walk and swim. If Justice asks about me tell him he can suck a fat one._

_I love you. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. Now it’s less weird to write.  
Carver._

(Put it on top of the nightstand, but fold it first. And be quiet. He’ll know what it is. You’ll be back soon enough.)


	12. Chapter Twelve

(A letter, with Grey Warden insignia on the outside, addressed to one Ser Carver Hawke:)

_Ser Hawke,_

_I’m not too great at writing your human writing so I asked one of the Senior Wardens for help- this is Oghren. Not my fault if anything’s spelled wrong. (This’ll be word for word, right?)_

_Kid: Anders, magey, whatever, he’s gone. We can’t find him anywhere. And so is the creepy spirit thing, justice (that's with a capital J) or Kristoff or whoever. You two never got along anyway, but we figured they might be together. They were on a patrol, things went nuts. Fire and everything. A few good men were killed. Anders and Justice not among ‘em. Your mage is alive, but good luck finding him._

_His door was unlocked and your letter (none of us read it) was open on his bed. I'm sure he read it though so don’t you worry._

_He’ll probably come to you. It’ll be up to Stroud’s judgement then. His judgement saved your life, so if that means anything, don’t freak out._

_Some other Wardens said he caught a boat to Kirkwall, so that’s good luck for you anyway. Show this to Stroud. He oughta let you stay with your brother until you find him. Then- the pretty woman writing this all down is going to give me a stink eye for this but kid, if he doesn’t want to go back to the Wardens, don’t make him. The whole Keep knows your big brother’s an apostate anyway so what’s one more? Sounds like a Marches problem, not a Ferelden problem. (Oghren thought this was funny.)_

_Keep your eyes open. For both of them. That Justice takes one step in a normal people town and everyone’ll run screaming for the hills._

_Stay safe, don’t do stupid shit (sorry, ma’am). I’ll keep my tab open at the Crown and Lion if you ever come back.  
Oghren._

(Found months later, crumpled up in the streets of Hightown, Kirkwall, The Free Marches.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully (most likely) there will be more to this later (as in a sequel) because...I feel like I ended this in a weird way and even I can't have it finish without a totally happy ending. But, hey. Hope you enjoyed it!! :-)


End file.
